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KiMt peerless "IE 



Nos. 1 to 5 



October, 1917 



A Journal of Battery E, 2nd Ohio Field Artillery. 

Originated by Captain G. O. Mitchell and 

Edited by Corp. Baruch Jonas. 




COPYRIGHT 1917 
By Corporal Baruch Jonas 

WILSON PRINTING CO. MONTGOMERY 



JJ£ 



S5 

The writer's thanks are due to Capt. C. 0. 
Mitchell and Lieut. H. Huntley without whose en- 
couragement and personal efforts this book would 
have never been published or even written; and 
also to all the other officers and men of the Bat- 
tery E, whose kindness and consideration inspired 
me to do my very best. 

EDITOR'S PREFACE 

This curious Journal originated in the following 
manner : There is in the Battery E Of the 2nd Ohio 
Field Artillery a certain worthless, fellow whose 
name is Corporal Something-or-other, it does not 
matter much what it is. He doesn't know his left 
hand from his right and has- a perfect genius for 
throwing a battery into confusion at the very mo- 
ment when it has almost won the war by getting a 
beautifully straight line on the parade ground. A 
council of war was called to decide what to do with 
him, but no one could suggest anything, because 
the man, as said before, is good for nothing at all. 
But finally an idea occurred to Capt. Mitchell, who 
is the commander of the Battery E. "Why not 
make a writer out of him," thought he . "And 
have him record the sayings and doings of the Bat- 
tery? Any fool can be a successful writer, as wit- 
nessed by 99 out of a 100 books." 

Accordingly, Corporal What'shisname was ap- 
pointed as the official writer of the Battery E, and 
we, the Editor, were instructed to take charge of 
that weak-minded cumberer of the earth and to see 
that he do his work in a satisfactory manner. 

This we shall try to do as well as it is in our 
power, but we hope that the reader will 
consider the difficulties with which we have to 
contend. We have no fixed abode, our home 
being wherever we happen to hang our edito- 
rial hat. And we have very little leisure on ac- 
count of that daily nuisance, the drill, which con- 
sumes five hours of our valuable time. The style 
of this journal will therefore necessarily be abrupt, 
unpolished and painfully plain, but we venture to 
predict nevertheless, that the reader who knows 
how to read between lines will not find his time al- 
together wasted. 



THE PEERLESS E 
No. 1 

June 9th, 1917. A miracle. The Lord transform- 
ed chaos into this rather chaotic world in seven 
days. The U. S. War Department goes Him one 
better and in one second transforms a troop of 
cavalry into two batteries of artillery. And yet 
there are sceptics who claim that the age of mira- 
cles is past. 

The newly created units are called Battery B and 
Battery E. 



July 1st, 1917. Battery E receives the first in- 
stallment of its equipment in the shape of a bugle. 

July 12th, 1917. Battery E receives more equip- 
ment in the shape of another bugle. Greased light- 
ning is supposed to be a fairly rapid thing, but it 
is a veritable snail in comparison with an American 
mobilization. No criticism is, however, intended. 
Please Heaven that other nations were as slow in 
going to war as we are. We regret our unpre- 
paredness, but at the same time we cannot help be- 
ing proud of it. 



July 15th, 1917. The Batteries B and E go into 
a carefully selected camp. An open sewer called 
by courtesy the Ten Mile Creek, represents the 
No Man's Land, for no man has as yet been fool- 
hardy enough to go into it. A bath in its oily wa- 
ter would probably be more fatal than a German 
bullet. A highly realistic sham battle is fought 
every night with real blood flowing in streams. 
Mosquitoes by the million are attacking. The men, 
hopelessly outnumbered, defend themselves as 
they can, using oil of citronella, liquid fire and sul- 
phurous language. The stench of the battlefield 
is imitated and even surpassed by a nearby garbage 
disposal plant, which also provides valuable exper- 
ience in the matter of poisonous gases. No better 
site could have possibly been selected for a camp, 
for the men are now ready for almost anything. 
The name of this delightful place is Camp Wal- 
bridge. 

July 20th, 1917. The downpour of equipment 
continues. The Batteries B and E receive an old 

©CI.A479535 
DEC 14 1917 ' x 



farm wagon and a couple of planks and manufac- 
ture a wooden gun. Berlin hears of it and is thrown 
into consternation. 

August 12th, 1917. The Batteries B and E invite 
the Ladies' Auxiliary for a picnic. The Ladies pro- 
vide enough fruit, cake and food of all kinds to 
spoil the digestion of a brigade. The Batteries 
generously supply an unlimited amount of water. 
An entertainment is also given at which the peer- 
less quartette of the Battery E consisting of Pri- 
vates Chamberlain, Drulard, Steiger and Stimpfle 
covers itself with glory. 

A member of the Battery E, whose name we 
charitably suppress, steps forward and recites the 
following literary crime. 

CAMP WALBRIDGE. 

1. 

Quite happy and wonderful lives lead we, 

The men of the Second Artillery E, 

Somewhere in Ohio, on the lovely shore, 

Of a crystal pure stream we are waging grim war. 

Speak not of Marne, the Aisne or the Yser, 

Right here in Ohio we're fighting the Kaiser. 

2. 

And, friends, let me tell you : the worst of our foes 
Is a bit of a chap, weighs ten pounds in his clo'es. 
When stripped, I think he weighs nothing at all. 
"I can't get 'em up," is his desperate call. 
"I can't get 'em up," so his bugle sadly blows. 
But he does get us up for the Lord only knows 
If we dare to remain on our bunks or our ticks, 
The Captain's upon us like a ton of bricks. 

3. 
That bugler chap, Buttery, eats not nor sleeps, 
But ever and ever he after us keeps. 
At 8 in the morning he calls us to drill ; 
At 10 in the morning we are drilling still. 
A brief little rest at the hour of eleven, 
And then it is drill call again by heaven! 

4. 
That bugler chap ruins my nerves, I say 
Boys, lynch him, I think he's in Germany's pay. 
And the same should be done to the alien spies 
Who brought here ten millions of blood-thirsty 
flies. 



That eat us and plague us while sunshine is bright;. 
And clouds of mosquitoes that plague us at night.. 

5. 
Camp Walbridge ! A wonder you are 'tis no lie. 
Sad tears shall we weep when we bid you good bye. 
Five thousand mosquitoes last night I have slain; 
Was pretty near drowned as it started to rain; 
For breakfast five flies I had and an ant, 
And poison gas breathed from the near garbage 

plant. 
Speak not of Marne, the Aisne or the Yser, 
Right here in Camp Walbridge we're fighting the 

Kaiser. 



August 4th, 1917. The two batteries are muster- 
ed into federal service. This arouses wild rumors 
that a pay day may be in sight. But hope dies away 
and gloom settles once more upon 400 "busted" 
men. 



August 16th, 1917. The Batteries E and B for the 
first time in their career go into action. The list 
of casualties is appalling — 400 officers and men are 
shot — in the arm with a hypodemic needle contain- 
ing typhoid serum. Great courage is displayed by 
the men in spite of the fact that Corporal X, who 
is the finest fellow and the most accomplished liar 
that ever wore a red hat cord, is trying his hardest 
to scare them into a fit. With a face a yard long 
on which sympathy is struggling with consterna- 
tion he approaches a strapping recruit. "Whatever 
you do," he whispers, "hold your arm away from 
your body. The needle, you know, goes occasion- 
ally clear through the arm and pierces a fellow's 
side, in which case, of course, he dies." The re- 
cruit's face turns a beautiful olive drab and he be- 
comes somewhat wobbly on his feet. But other- 
wise he meets his awful fate like a man. 

As the nasty stuff begins to circulate in the bod- 
ies of the victims, some of the men (always the 
tallest and the strongest) faint away like school- 
girls, others become feverish and dizzy, and a 
fortunate few are not affected at all. Altogether 
it is a delightful diversion and ought to be repeat- 
ed at least once every week. • 



August 20th, 1917. An epidemic hits the camp. 



It is a mysterious disease somewhat similar to pa- 
resis or softening of the brain, its principal symp- 
tom being- a strange desire on the part of the men 
to sprout a dinky little Charley Chaplin moustache. 
Corporal Lewis and Sergeant Parke are the first 
victims. Corporal DuClerq and a number of oth- 
ers are quickly infected. Two commissioned offi- 
cers likewise catch the disease. The writer of this 
Journal resist heroically, but gradually begins to 
feel a strange stirring in his manly breast: he like- 
wise yearns to sprout a moustache. 

This desperate situation calls for heroic means. 
A mob gathers around one of the patients and aft- 
er a short struggle overpowers him and clips off 
his moustache. Seeing this, Pvt. Stone of Battery 
B takes to the tall timber with a hundred men in 
wild pursuit. He is caught and his moustache is 
ruthlessly amputated. The same grim fate over- 
takes Sergeant Parke after a desperate resistance. 
Whereupon Corporal DuClerq retreats to his tent 
and with tears in his eyes shaves off his own mous- 
tache, thus establishing a new record of wisdom 
and stoicism. 

The day ends in an almost complete wiping out 
of the disease. The two commissioned officers are 
still affected, but discipline is discipline. Their 
equals in rank will have to attend to them. 

August 20th, 1917. Private Phillips of Battery 
B is kicked by a horse. The horse is not seriously 
injured, but sustains a slight abrasure on its left 
hoof and a nervous shock. 



Aug. 21st, 1917. The horse that had kicked Pri- 
vate Phillips has completely recovered and is 
ready for another man, preferably of Battery B. 



EDITOR'S NOTE: Thus ends the first number 
of the Journal, which, as the reader can see, does 
not contain a single word of sense. Our excuse 
is that we were extremely busy and could not 
watch our writer as he ought to be watched. But 
we are going to put the screws on him, and the 
next number will be more sensible, or we will 
know the reason why. 



THE PEERLESS E 

No. 2 

CAMP WALBRIDGE, Aug. 24.— The writer of 
these pages has a painful conversation with the ed- 
itor. We are told in terms which are more force- 
ful than elegant that we had better "come out of 
it," and write some sense or else it is the guard- 
house for us. 

Our answer is an absolute refusal. If we had 
any sense, we tell him, we should not be a second 
assistant of a junior acting corporal in the army. 
We are walking and eating and sleeping accord- 
ing to regulations. (See Army Regulations, pages 
24, 25, 26 and 27 : How to Fold a Blanket.) But 
we shall be thrice blessed if we write this Jour- 
nal according to regulations. And just to demon- 
strate our complete independence we shall begin 
this number with several pages of undiluted non- 
sense, devoted entirely to: 

Women. 

Before Germany concentrated her collective mind 
upon poisonous gases and submarines it used to 
have artists and poets, and one of them said : 

Ehret die Frauen. Sie pflechten und weben 

Himlische Blumen ins Irdische Leben. 

Which can be tamely translated as follows : 

Honour the women, for heavenly flowers 

Into the tissue of earth-life they weave. 

While another writer prefaced a very interest- 
ing book with the following four lines: 
Drum horet was der Weise spricht 
Zu euren dicken Shadeln. 
Verachted mir die Madeln nicht, 
Die Shonen, siissen Madeln. 

Which, translated into camp-English means : 
Oh men, into your craniums square, 
Do let this great truth sink : 
Despise me not the maidens fair, 
They're worthier than you think. 

Yes, friends, they are a thousand, no, a million 
times worthier and finer and more important in 
the scheme of creation than men, the greatest 
among us not excepted. I could write a whole vol- 
ume on the subject and show in detail how art and 
kindness and decency and refinement are entirely 



due to the influence of Woman upon the human 
race but I have no time. The sergeant wants me 
to fall in line to sign the pay roll. Life in the army- 
Is one eternal standing in line. 

Stand in line to get a collar button. Stand in line 
to get a dog license. Stand in line to get an inoc- 
ulation, a love letter, a car ticket. But above all 
stand in line to sign the payroll. For if you don't 
sign it, you don't get paid, while if you do sign it 
— you don't get paid either, but your imagination is 
pleasantly stimulated and you begin to remember 
how a dollar used to look in the distant dim past 
when you had one in your possession. The fav- 
orite tune in the camp just at present is the fol- 
lowing one, which is sung to the tune of Glory, 
Glory Halleluya : 

All the time we sign the payroll, 
All the time we sign the payroll, 
Everyday we sign the payroll, 
But we don't get a doggone cent ! 

(Editor's note: All this is wildly exaggerated; 
we don't stand in line now as often as we used to, 
and as to that tantalizing payroll — we have sign- 
ed it only twice. There is an excellent reason 
why we should not be paid before we arrive to the 
concentration camp, but our writer, as said before, 
has no sense and cannot be expected to understand 
it.) 

Alright, we have signed that payroll and now — 
Attention! We are going to recite a poem which 
we once wrote for one of the dearest girls on earth: 

At first God created the Universe fair, 
The mountains and valleys, the sea and the air, 
The sun and the moon and the glorious skies, 
And all that delights and our wants satisfies. 

And then when He saw that the world was com- 
plete, 
His highest creation He added to it. 
The man He created and rested content 
For only on him was our Maker intent. 

But man, although perfect and wondrously wise, 
The Infinite could not by sense realize, 
A plaything of chance he the universe deemed, 
And even God's word but a dream to him seemed. 



And said the Creator: "What ought to be done? 
For lo, 'tis not good that the man be alone." 
And out of His pity for ignorance human 
Our Maker created the Love and the Woman. 
And Man saw the Woman and knew he had erred, 
For Love in his heart had delightfully stirred,. 
And said the First Lover: This cannot be chance. 
It cannot be dream or illusion or trance. 
Those beautiful eyes, that wonderful face, 
Her every movement's enchanting sweet grace, 
No dream could create and no chance could devise. 
So there must be a God infinitely wise. 



The sergeant wants us to fall in line again, pre- 
sumably to sign another payroll. Alright, we are 
coming. But first of all we shall conclude this ar- 
ticle by saying, that while we were writing it we 
had in mind a particular set of women, I mean the 
dear mothers, sisters and friends of our Ladies' 
Auxiliary, who transformed this dreary camp for 
us into a delightful and wonderful place. Three 
cheers for our Ladies' Auxiliary, fellows ! And 
whenever we meet a woman, any woman whatso- 
ever, French or German, rich or poor, exalted or 
persecuted, we shall remember, won't we, that 
she is made of the same wonderful clay of which the 
women of our Auxiliary are also made. 



CAMP WALBRIDGE, Aug. 25.— The Batteries 
E and B will break camp the day after tomorrow, 
Sept. 27th. 



CAMP WALBRIDGE, Aug. 27— The Batteries 

do not break camp today, but will positively leave 
here next Friday, September 28th. 



CAMP WALBRIDGE, Aug.- 29— The Batteries 
are still here and are having a glorious time. But 
will undoubtedly entrain the day after tomorrow, 
September 1st. This time there cannot be any 
mistake, because Corporal Warner has it from 
Private McNally who has heard somebody say that 
he had heard it from the captain's orderly. 



CAMP WALBRIDGE, Aug. 30 — Contrary to the 
previous announcement, the batteries will not en- 
train tomorrow. 



CAMP WALBRIDGE, Aug. 31.— They didn't. 



CAMP WALBRIDGE, Sept. 1.— Nothing certain 
is known about our leaving here, but there is no 
uncertainty whatever about our having a corking 
good time. We are being petted and wined and 
dined by the best people in Toledo, and the dear- 
est of girls allow us to monopolize their time, 
thereby driving their civilian admirers to despera- 
tion. Sad looking young men in civilian dress are 
constantly approaching us on the street with 
heart-breaking questions : "When do you fellows 
leave?" And when we tell them that we do not 
know they walk away in the direction of the near- 
est drug store presumably to buy carbolic acid. 
The rumor is beginning to spread that the entire 
mobilization has been a scheme on the part of a 
number of the young men to place themselves in 
the limelight, and that the Batteries will never 
leave here at all. 



CAMP WALBRIDGE, Sept. 3, 1917-Labor Day. 
The Batteries B and E not being allowed to fight 
the Germans, arrange for a friendly fight with 
each other. A boxing match takes place between 
Pvts. Harry Clark and William Rose, who repre- 
sent respectively the Batteries B and E. The for- 
mer is an Englishman, has seen service in the En- 
glish army and has at one time held the light- 
weight championship in Detroit. His style in 
fighting is something delightful to see. The lat- 
ter is a Hebrew, only 22 years old, with no pugilis- 
tic reputation, but with no end of courage and 
aggressiveness. Some gruesome preparations 
take place. A hospital litter carried by two men 
makes its appearance. "Take it to Clark's corner, 
he'll need it," yells the bloodthirsty contingent of 
E. "Take it to Rose," yells the equally blood- 
thirsty Battery B. The fight lasts three rounds 
with a lot of punishment being cheerfully given 
and taken. At the end of the third round it be- 
came evident that the men are too evenly matched 
and Lieutenant Huntley who is the referee, de- 
clares the fight a draw. Two despondent men car- 
ry the litter away, alas, empty. 

CAMP WALBRIDGE, Sept. 2.— "I like thunder 



and lightning," says Pvt. Manley as he is preparing 
to hit the hay at about 11 o'clock last evening. 
The next moment there is an appalling crash and 
a sheet of red flame descends upon the top of the 
tent. It was to be expected. Pvt. Manley is a God- 
fearing man, a church member, and a 32nd degree 
Mason. He is known far and wide by the lily like 
innocence and exquisite purity of his speech. When 
a holy man like this says that he likes thunder and 
lightning it is only too natural that the Archangel 
in command of the celestial artillery should gratify 
him by a particularly well aimed shot. The light- 
ning runs along the wet sides of the tent into the 
ground and does no harm. On the contrary it does 
some good by interrupting the flow of Pvt. Manley's 
eloquence. We are living in constant fear that his 
saintly language may yet cause him to be taken 
bodily to heaven, as the Prophet Elijah was ac- 
cording to the Bible. 

Unfortunately, however, (or shall we say for- 
tunately? It all depends upon the standpoint.) 
this is merely a beginning. Having fired the above 
mentioned shot the celestial gunner now traverses 
his piece so as to sweep the entire camp. One shot 
hits the tent opposite to ours and, being apparent- 
ly under the impression that Private Gunn of Bat- 
tery B is made of gun-metal, tries to pass thru 
his body. He is thrown out of his cot and hits the 
wooden floor very hard, but, we are glad to say, 
does not break it. Another shot hits the telephone 
wire and stuns Lieutenant Johnson who is trying to 
send a message. A third goes wild but creates such 
a disturbance in the air that the big guard tent, a 
30x40 foot affair, crashes down and buries the 
sleeping guards under a tangle of tent poles and 
canvas. 

This causes intense happiness to a number of men. 
Nothing pleases the never-do-wells of this outfit 
so much as making plenty of noise, and now is their 
chance. The bugler of the guard rushes out in his 
pajamas and in quick succession blows the fire- 
call, the assembly and the reveille. We expect him 
to sound the mess call and the fatigue while he is 
at it, but are disappointed. The sentry on post 
number 6 lets out a yell of "Corporal of the Guard" 
that can be heard clear across the state of Ohio, 
and not being content with that, follows it up with 



a succession of shots from his 45 automatic. It is 
the nearest approach to real action the battalion 
has ever had and every one, especially the victims, 
is delighted. 

During all this commotion the writer of these 
lines quietly remained in his bunk. He is a per- 
son of philosophical turn of mind and does not al- 
low a little thing like a bolt of lightning to disturb 
him. He instinctively knew moreover that there 
was "nothing to it". When death is around one 
feels it by a sort of a sixth sense. 

He was not mistaken. An investigation next 
morning revealed the fact that nothing of any con- 
sequence had happened. We have already men- 
tioned that the floor in Pvt. Gunn's tent was not 
broken. The telephone which had stunned Lieu- 
tenant Johnson was in perfect working order. 
There was a slight dent in the heavy tent pole 
which fell across the head of one of the guards, 
but the quartermaster says that the guard will not 
have to pay for the damage. The battalion was 
cheated out of a first class military funeral and 
that was all. 

And therein is contained a lesson : Do not get 
excited under any conditions whatever. Things are 
seldom as dangerous as they look. It is our ex- 
citement that makes them dangerous. And sup- 
posing even that a few tents and uniforms and 
bodies do get mussed up, what of it? There are 
plenty more where these come from. The Great 
Source of all such things endures forever and ever, 
and should this not be a consolation to every 
Thinking man? 



THE PEERLESS E 

No. 3 

The men of the Second Artillery E 
The faithful young sons of Ohio are we, 
With vim and with art to do ever our part 
To be on the spot right away at the start 
And second to none in the world to be 
Is the aim of the Second Artillery E. 



We come from the shore of the fair Maumee 
And some of us come from way over the sea, 
We are men of books and we are also cooks 
And some of us boast only money and looks, 
But here all alike and all equal are we, 
We're men of the Second Artillery E. 
Tho all of us like to be well at our ease 
We'll drill and we'll fight and we'll hunger and 

freeze. 
Who fears you, oh Huns, and your "fearfulness" 

dire? 
Bring on your vile poisons, your gas and your fire. 
Let brief but sublime our existences be. 
We're men of the Second Artillery E. 
Our aim is not conquest, but justice and right 
For freedom and fairness, not lucre we'll fight. 
Tis war against war for Humanity's sake. 
We care not a yard from our our foeman to take. 
But greed shall be downed, the earth shall be free. 
Ay, just is the aim of the Battery E. 
And just as our aim shall our firing be, friend. 
Let fair, just and true be each shot which we send. 
On every shot shall the message we write : 
Dear Fritz, kindly learn that might is not right. 
And Fritzy will swear : "Oh verdamm it, I see : 
'Tis again das verflixte old Battery E ! 



Gamp Walbridge, Sept. 22, 1917. The monotony 
of the camp life is affecting the nerves of some of 
our men. One of them has been reading too much 
about German atrocities and decides to commit an 
atrocity of his own. He does it in verse and we 
publish it on the first page as a solemn warning 
to others. 



Camp Walbridge, Sept. 23, 1917. The most un- 
popular person in the Battery E just at present (ex- 
cepting of course the buglers) is Pvt. Kuhlman, 
who is an expert in physical culture and is direct- 
ing our setting-up exercises in the morning. It is 
not his fault. In the human body there are sev- 
eral thousand muscles, some of which are doing all 
the work, while others are merely loafing, and it 
is Pvt. Kuhlman's job to compel those lazy mus- 
cles to do some semblance of work. His com- 
mands are therefore extremely complicated and 
sometimes weird. I do not remember them exact- 



ly, but they sound about as follows : "At-ten-tion ! 
Standing on the little finger of your left hand, re- 
volve your ears in a circle ! The same thing on the 
middle finger of the right hand ! Al-ter-nate ! Now, 
lay down on your back, raise yourself on your right 
elbow without touching the ground at any other 
point and being in that position rest!" 

The men know of course that it is all for their 
own good, but occasionally a heart-rending groan 
ascends from a prostrated multitude to Heaven. 

On a Train, Sept. 25. We are writing this on a 
train, because the thing which we have almost 
ceased to expect has at last happened. We broke 
camp yesterday and are on our way to a concen- 
tration camp near Montgomery, Ala. 

The breaking of a camp is a peculiar and instruc- 
tive sight to those who are accustomed to look for 
the inner meaning of things. At 6 o'clock in the 
morning the complicated organism which we 
called Camp Walbridge began to disintegrate. 
Down fell the members of its body, the stately rows 
of brown tents. A turn of the switch, and its 
nerves, the telephone wires became silent. Its 
head, the headquarters building, from which the 
contents were removed, ceased to be a head and 
became simply a scull, an empty house, where the 
directing intelligence was dwelling no more. Axes 
resounded, and platforms, mess shacks and tempo- 
rary structures of all kinds went to pieces 

At 8 o'clock Camp Walbridge was dead. Nothing 
remained of it but a desolate field covered with 
debris, bags, implements and shapeless groups of 
men. 

But in this wonderful world of ours, which the 
awakening intellect of man is just beginning to 
comprehend, there is no death but that is at the 
same time a birth. There is no end but that is at 
the same time a beginning. The forces which had 
transformed order into chaos now began to re- 
transform chaos into order. The debris were piled 
into heaps which were set on fire, and the ashes 
were buried. The bags and implement were load- 
ed into wagons and carried away. Once more there 
was a clean and orderly field. And presently a 
bugle — a veritable trumpet of resurrection — was 
heard. It sounded "Assembly" and then "Forward 



March." And miracle of miracles : Here was 
"Camp Walbridge" come to life again in another 
form and under another name. A long line of khaki 
clad men moved out four abreast, the flame-red 
guidon fluttering in the lead, the band playing, the 
crowds on the sidewalks cheering and the earth 
resounding to the measured tread of 800 determin- 
ed feet. The hornet's nest which Germany had so 
imprudently stirred up was sending out another 
swarm of defenders. 

There had been no confusion in connection with 
the breaking of the camp. Hardly any orders were 
given but every one worked with a will and with 
the characteristic initiative for which the Ameri- 
can soldier is justly renowned. There was no 
noise but the work was done promptly and effi- 
ciently, which argues well for the future activities 
of the battalion. 

As to sadness, yes, there was a good deal of 
that. Some of us were leaving their parents, 
sweethearts and friends, and of course, they were 
sad. Others had no one to whom to say a true 
good-bye and of course they were still sadder. For 
such is the nature of man. We are unsatisfied with 
what we have and also with what we have 
not. One of our 400 friends, a powerful, strapping 
fellow whom we should never have suspected of 
such a weakness, wept as a child. Another was 
impassive in appearance, but we happen to know 
that he had death in his heart, because somebody 
who was dear to him, was not there. "But suppose 
that she were here," we said to him: "And sup- 
pose that you could convince her to say yes to a 
certain question. Would that have made you hap- 
pier?" He reflected for a few moments and an- 
swered: "Certainly not. It would have ruined all 
my plans and in the long run proved to be a disas- 
ter." This being so is it worth while to attribute 
real importance to any human sorrow? For our 
part we prefer to treat all our sorrows and joys 
as we do the weather. Is the sun shining and are 
the trees green? Very well, we enjoy it to the ut- 
most. Is the weather cold, the wind cutting, the 
scenery bleak? We wrap ourselves into the cloak 
of oiir philosophy and wait. Sooner or later, in 
this existence or in a future one the sun will shine 
once more. 



On a train, Sept. 26th. There is a very simple 
way to end this war. Take a number of German 
prisoners, put them aboard an American troop 
train and then return them to their beloved Vater- 
land. The things which they will tell their coun- 
trymen concerning the princely way in which 
American soldiers travel will produce a revolution 
and the revolution will end the war. 

The writer of these lines had been brought up in 
Europe and still remembers the cattle cars in 
which common people and especially soldiers are 
transported there. Most of those cars bear on the 
wall the inscription: 40 men, 8 horses. It hap- 
pened once that one of the soldiers who were pack- 
ed into such a car complained about the crowded 
condition. Quick as a flash a non-commissioned 
officer turned upon him: "Can you read?" he 
fiercely inquired. "Yes, sir." "Well, then, what 
does this inscription say? 40 men, 8 horses. There 
are only 40 men in this car, and if I hear one more 
word out of you, I'll add 8 horses to it." 

Quite different is the way in which our battalion 
is travelling. We have 10 enormous sleeping cars 
at our disposal with at least one luxuriously up- 
holstered seat for every man, electric light and 
every other convenience a person could reasonably 
expect. A staff of cooks is traveling with us in a 
special kitchen car and there is of course a num- 
ber of baggage cars, because distinguished tour- 
ists like us do not carry their own luggage. All we 
deign to encumber ourselves with is a small com- 
fort bag containing a few toilet articles, a mag- 
azine, a pad of paper and the photograph of our 
best girl. We have just finished our breakfast 
which consisted of the following seven things : 
Bread, butter, bacon, eggs, milk, sugar and coffee, 
all of which in unlimited quantity. 

In our opinion, however, this luxury is somewhat 
unscientific and overdone. This nation is rich, but 
we doubt whether we are wise in wasting our 
money on velvet upholstering, and on fancy food 
which costs like sin and has but little nutritive 
value. 

One simple and well prepared course is better 
than half a dozen courses indifferently prepared. 
A cook is but human and cannot be expected to 
prepare 57 varieties of food and do it well. The 



Spartans ate but one course at their meals, but it 
must have been sufficient, as it enabled them to 
become the foremost fighting nation of their time. 
We solemnly move that we cut out grape nuts 
and corn crisps and butter, save money and invest it 
in shrapnel for our dear Fritz. Those who are in 
favor of this motion kindly say Aye! Dead silence. 
Our boys like their little luxuries too well. 



On the train, Sept. 26th. Camp Sheridan, Ala.! 
Everybody out ! 



THE PEERLESS E 
No. 4 

Camp Sheridan, Ala., Sept. 27th, 1917. The pub- 
lication of this number was somewhat delayed be- 
cause the writer got lost and had to advertise in 
the local papers for somebody to find him. It is 
a very easy matter to get lost here, for the camp 
is enormous. Wherever you cast your eye you 
see tents and barracks, barracks and tents. The 
various battery streets look as much like as two 
peas and the only way we know to tell them apart 
is by the battery mascots. Do I see a coon at the 
entrance of a battery street? It is the Bat- 
tery B from Toledo. A diminutive doggie 
about the. size of my fist and barking ferociously 
at every passer-by? It is Battery F from Cleve- 
land. A black bear? It is headquarters, and so on. 
But the big, lumbering beast of the Battery X 
whom some of us call contemptuously a fishhound 
and our dear little collie whom the Battery X men 
call a laughing hyena happened to change 
places. Not knowing it and the night being dark, 
we entered the third tent on the right side of the 
Battery X street and, being tired, sat down heav- 
ily upon a bundle which was lieing on what we 
imagined to be our bunk. There was a violent 
commotion and the bundle arose and said .... 

But no, we are not going to profane these im- 
mortal pages by reporting the extremely unlady- 
like language they are using in the Battery X. Be- 



sides we did not stay very long to hear it. Our 
presence of mind is proverbial. The moment we 
felt that earthquake-like upheaval we knew that a 
strategical move was in order and that, like great 
Hmdenburg, we had better retreat to a better po- 
sition. We stood not therefore upon the order of 
our going, but went, the animated bundle after us. 
That bundle was surely bound to make our ac- 
quaintance, but we turned around and said these 
magical words: "Look out, the colonel." It is 
not good to run into our colonel when a fellow is 
in his night dress and swearing a blue streak of 
profanity. The bundle ran back into his tent as 
fast as he had run out of it, and we resumed our 
weary search of the street of our peerless E. 

Camp Sheridan, Ala., Sept. 20th, 1917. The men 
of the Battery E are getting familiar with their 
surroundings, and the more they see of them the 
better they like them. The general opinion is that 
Camp Sheridan is "some" camp. We have two rows 
of brand new tents, an enormous mess hall, and a 
bath house with a number of showers in it. So 
far we have not seen a single mosquito in this camp 
and to our amazement the flies are also incredibly 
scarce. We saw one fly disconsolately walking 
back and forth along the mess hall, but it could not 
get in because the building is screened from end 
to end. The poor fly finally committed suicide by 
alghting- upon Pvt. X. You surely know Pvt. X. 
or somebody like him, for a number of men of his 
type are invariably present in every battery, com- 
pany or troop. Yes, and also in every workshop 
and office and schoolroom. He is generally a neat 
looking young chap, expensively dressed and rather 
proud of his appearance. They tell me that he is 
clean and takes a bath as frequently as others. But 
his cleanliness is only skin deep. Underneath it he 
is mean, vile and so indecent and foul that the con- 
tact with him is poison. The moment that unfor- 
tunate fly alighted upon him it turned over on its 
back and began to wave its six legs in an agony 
that was painful to behold. It had been born in 
dirt and raised on dirt, but it had never come in 
contact with anything quite as dirty as that. Five 
seconds later the unfortunate insect was as dead 
as the Kaiser's hope of victory. 



Camp Sheridan, Sept. 27th, 1917. - Glory, Glory, 
Halleluia! Who said we would never get paid? 
The ghost has walked today. The men are ex- 
tremely busy getting rid of those forty-six dollars 
which are their first pay. The merchants of Mont- 
gomery and the canteens are helping them in a 
most patriotic and effective manner. 



Camp Sheridan, Sept. 28th, 1917.— The men are 

still very busy. Their money is burning big holes 
in their pockets and must be gotten rid of at any 
cost. One of our friends spent about thirty dol- 
lars in one evening. "What have you been buying,, 
the City Hall?" we inquired. "Oh, just junk," he 
answered in a disgusted manner. Another one 
came staggering into our tent half buried under 
miscellaneous packages big and small. Most of 
them contained eatables of various kinds ; such as 
fig bars, Nabisco wafers, ginger snaps, chewing 
gum, bananas, oranges and so on and so forth. He 
won't die but is a very sick man this morning. 

It has been raining for the last 24 hours and mili- 
tary work of any kind is out of question. We went 
to the Y. M. C. A. but were driven out by a luna- 
tic who was walking on his hands up and down the 
keyboard of a piano. We did not see him do it, but 
it sounded like it. We wanted to shoot him, but 
are not allowed to carr}r firearms or ammunition. 
We were told by some of the innocent bystanders 
that the man was not crazy at all but was merely 
playing- ragtime. All right, ragtime let it be. But 
we shall say one thing: if the German atrocities 
are only half as bad as this so called ragtime, we 
shall take precious good care not to be taken alive. 



Camp Sheridan, Sept. 28th, 1917. Isn't it won- 
derful what a little practical experience will do to 
a theory? So much has been said about the won- 
derful things which would happen if all human be- 
ings were given an equal opportunity. Read the 
two ponderous volumes of Carl Marx and, if you 
survive them, read the writings of other shining 
socialistic lights such as Engels, Bebel, Bernstein 
and so on, and you will get a very definite idea 
as to how to cure this sick world of its many ills. 
Suppress capital, redistribute wealth in an equita- 
ble manner, give every one an equal opportunity, 



and the millenium will be at hand. Very simple and 
plausible in theory, but how does it work in prac- 
tice? 

If you want to know, you are hereby invited to 
take a post-graduate course in that great school of 
practical sociology which is called the U. S. Army. 
The experiment is done here on a gigantic scale. 
A number of men are taken from every walk of 
life and all are given an equal opportunity. All are 
dressed alike in the best clothing that money can 
buy, given food, shelter, medical attention, recrea- 
tion, rooms, gymnasiums, libraries and other 
things too numerous to mention, in addition to 
which each enlisted man receives 30 to 40 dollars 
per month according to rank. And what is the re- 
sult? 

Come around three days after a pay day and you 
will see. You will probably find half a dozen men 
who have profited by their pay and have either sav- 
ed it or spent it in a reasonable manner. The rest 
are "broke." Some have managed to gamble their 
money away, although games of chance are strict- 
ly forbidden. Others bought a lot of useless trash 
precisely as the savages do who exchange gold 
nuggets for a few colored beads. Still others have 
stuffed themselves with indigestible food and are 
sick. This is how the equal opportunity works in 
real life. 



Camp Sheridan, Sept. 29th, 1917. We know at 
present why we did not see any mosquitoes and 
hardly any flies in this camp. This place is not fit 
for a mosquito. It is not fit for a fly. All it is fit 
for is ducks, frogs, water snakes and similar crea- 
tures for whom life is one eternal bath. 

It had started to rain soon after our arrival here 
three days ago and it is raining still. The word 
raining is however, a very tame expression and does 
not begin to convey what I have in mind to say. I 
must therefore make a digression and tell you 
about the military gentleman, who returned from 
an artillery school and was relating to us his ex- 
periences. When he came to the description of a 
frightful explosion which had been caused by the 
premature bursting of a shell in the breech of a 
gun, he said "The gunner lost his head," and see- 
ing that we were somewhat in doubt about his 



meaning he gravely added: "When I say that the 
gunner lost his head, I mean that he lost it." 

I hardly need to say that the gentleman was 
not joking in the least. He was speaking in per- 
fect earnest of a fatal accident, and if there was 
a touch of grim war humor about the thing, it was 
not his fault. 

In a similar manner when I say that it has been 
raining for the last three days I mean that it has 
been raining. Raining in torrents. Raining cats 
and dogs and pink alligators. It began with just a 
common, ordinary, every-day rain. It was follow- 
ed by a more serious rain and then by 24 hours of 
entirely business-like rain. But at 6 o'clock yes- 
terday evening a telegraphic message arrived to 
the camp stating that the real, genuine, copper- 
riveted and dyed-in-the-wool rain was yet to come 
and that it would be accompanied by a 70 or 80- 
mile-an-hour gale. A tropical storm was raging 
a few hundred miles south of us and was headed 
for Camp Sheridan gathering strength as it went. 

It was a gentle hint for us, army men, to get busy. 
This writer does not believe in hard work, nor does 
anyone else in his tent, but we certainly did work 
during that hour or two of grace that had been al- 
lowed to us. We drove the stakes into the ground 
as far as they would go, dug trenches to carry 
away the deluge and did everything else in our 
power to prevent our tents from collapsing upon 
our heads. But the best we could do was not good 
enough. In the morning the entire camp was a 
wreck, or rather a dirty, water-logged sponge. 
Hundreds of tents had been blown down, and those 
that had remained up were not much of a pro- 
tection, for there is not a tent in existence that 
will stand this kind of a deluge. 

As a result we are all very happy. This is our 
first taste of real war hardship and every one of us 
is amply equal to it. There was more laughter in 
our tent this morning than at any previous time. 
Pvt. Waltenberger, who had undressed before going 
to bed, awoke to find his clothing soaking wet. "I 
absolutely refuse to play this war game any lon- 
ger," he exclaimed imitating to perfection the voice 
of a spoiled child, and there was homeric laughter. 
The writer of these lines had been wiser. He went 
to bed fully dressed, uniform, boots, spurs, water- 



proof coat and all. As a result he had a dry thread 
or two in his clothing when he got up and felt very- 
proud and superior about it. In addition to which 
he did not have to go to the bathroom for his 
morning toilet, for the rain water running off his 
coat had formed on his cot a small lake about 
an inch deep, in which he proceded to take his 
morning ablutions. Some more laughter and then 
songs and merry making of every kind. 

Surely God loves the Battery E. We have had a 
stroke of lightning and a deluge and if our luck 
keeps on we may yet have an earthquake. 



THE PEERLESS E 
No. 5 

Camp Sheridan, Oct. 3rd, 1917. Nothing im- 
portant to record. The battery goes on a hike and 
one of the fellows gets tired and sits down on a 
stump. He will never, never do it again. The trees 
in this locality are mostly firs and the stumps are 
covered with a layer of pitch a quarter of an inch 
thick. The face that friend of ours made, when he 
tried to get up and could not, would have made a 
fortune for a moving picture concern. 

On the same hike the writer of these pages 
makes his acquaintance with a delightful southern 
fruit called persimmon. He saw First Sergeant 
Davis pick up something that looked like a beau- 
tiful ripe plum and hold it temptingly between his 
finger and thumb as a man does when a thing is 
too good to be eaten quickly. We asked him to 
give us a piece and to our astonishment he gave us 
all of it with an alacrity which would have put 
us on our guard if it had not been counteracted 
by the look of perfect innocence which he habitual- 
ly wears on his face. We took it and of course 
Pvt. McNurney who was marching alongside, de- 
manded a half and got it. Both of us bit into it 
at the same moment and 

This row of points is the only way in which I can 
express the wonderful taste of the thing. Noth- 
ing quite like it exists in God's world. 'The flavor 



lingers" and even now as we are writing these 
lines we can feel it on the tip of our tongue. We 
earnestly recommend persimmons to all our read- 
ers and friends. 



Camp Sheridan, Ala., Oct. 6th, 1917. Again noth- 
ing to report except a number of boxing matches 
between the various batteries of the 135th Regi- 
ment (the present name of the Second Ohio.) The 
representative of the Battery E is once more that 
white hope of ours, Pvt. William Rose and 
he justifies our fondest hopes by securing the only 
knock-out of the evening at the end of only three 
rounds. 

We have nicknamed Pvt. Rose a white hope be- 
cause his general conduct is that which is suppos- 
ed to be but is not characteristic of the typical 
white man. He does not use any vile language 
and does not act as if he had left his manners at 
the door of the recruiting station, as so many oth- 
er unfortunately do. 



A LETTER 

Camp Sheridan, Ala., Oct. 10th, 1917. 
To Mrs. Geo. P. Greenhalgh, President of the La- 
dies' Auxiliary of the Batteries B and E. 
Dear Madam : 

I received your letter and hasten to assure you 
that I never forgot my original intention of keep- 
ing the ladies of our auxiliary well informed. But 
I have been doing it too well. I have written 50 
or 60 pages which one of these days will be type- 
written or printed, if necessary, at my expense, and 
presented to the Auxiliary. But it will take some 
time and in the meanwhile here is just a brief ac- 
count of our latest experience. 

We arrived at Camp Sheridan, Ala., about three 
weeks ago and were surprised at the generous and 
almost royal way in which things have been pre- 
pared for us by the Government. Nothing seems 
to be too good or too expensive when our comfort 
and our health are concerned. Our tents are 
brand new and are now being fitted out with floors, 
walls and glass doors (!) They are lighted by 
electricity and so are our mess halls and bath- 
houses. Thanks to a clever system of in- 



cineration and drainage the sanitation of the 
camp is splendid. There does not seem to 
be a drop of alcohol for miles around, and so far 
I have not seen one intoxicated or even mildly in- 
toxicated person anywhere in town or camp. So 
much about the material conditions. You, ladies, 
need have no worry whatever. Your sons and 
brothers are taken as good care of as can possi- 
bly be expected. 

The social conditions are not and naturally can 
not be as good. There are so many of us here, 
that the town of Montgomery is literally swamp- 
ed and transformed into another camp. Soldiers 
are promenading through its streets by squads, 
sections and platoons. The shops and theatres are 
full of us and a civilian is almost a curiosity. This 
being so, no one of course pays any attention to 
us and, far as social life is concerned, we might 
just as well be camping in the desert of Sahara. 

Those among us who are very young and do not 
yet understand that the stern realities of life must 
be taken without a complaint, are somewhat down 
cast. The other day one of my tent fellows, Pvt. 
McNurney, expressed the general sentiment much 
better than I can do it myself, in one single phrase : 
"All dressed up and no place to go," said he. 

Others take it philosophically and drown their 
sorrow in pop which they drink in prodigious 
quantities. Still others indulge in a veritable orgy 
of letter writing. One of my tent mates uses up a 
whole writing tablet every day. Another (Mc- 
Nurney) recently broke all records by receiving 12 
letters and a newspaper in one day. There is of 
course some dark secret in connection with such a 
profusion of mail. I refuse to believe that he is 
as popular as all that. Is he writing to himself? 
Or is he spending his princely wages to hire some- 
body to write him? I should not be surprised at 
all. A person is apt to do anything to relieve the 
deadly monotony of four hours of drill which are 
followed by four more hours of drill and so on in 
an endless succession. 

Nevertheless the "morale" of the camp is splen- 
did. The men work with a will and literally fall 
over each other when there is something to do. 
They still have a somewhat wrong idea of discip- 
line and imagine that discipline consists in obey- 



ing the better and more competent man. They do 
not yet understand that true discipline is the obe- 
dience to the lawful command of any man who 
happens to be in charge. But it is gradually be- 
ing drilled into them and very soon will become 
second nature. 

Must finish this letter as there is no end of things 
to do, but will be delighted to write you again. I 
still remember how humanely and graciously you, 
ladies, have been treating us in Toledo and nothing 
I can do for you in return will be left undone. 

Sincerely yours, 



ANOTHER LETTER 

To Mr. Lawrence C. Norton, 

Los Angeles, Cal. 
Dear Norton: 

Am I still alive? I would not take a bet on it. 
Not until some competent medical man examines 
my remains and assures me that some parts of the 
mechanism are still working. Judge, however, by 
yourself from the brief history of the day that has 
just elapsed. 

I got up at half past five and rushed to the bath 
house to get a shower before reveille. Miscalculat- 
ed the time by 10 minutes and had to break all 
records in fast dressing so as to be on my post 
at the roll call. Reveille over, made up my bunk 
and saw to it that my tent mates did the same. 
Rushed to the mess hall only to find it closed and 
waited outside beating a tattoo with my teeth. The 
nights are cruelly cold and the days cruelly hot in 
Alabama. After breakfast conjured a broom and 
had the tent and its surroundings swept clean. Fell 
in for "fatigue" and spent 4 hours with pick, shovel 
and rake. As a non-commissioned officer I did not 
have to work, but did it all the same for the 
sake of an example. A hasty lunch and then 4 
more hours of "fatigue" consisting of the task of 
cleaning up about 3 acres of grass and weeds by 
the beautifully simple process of pulling them up 
one by one. Returned from "fatigue" and helped 
to unload a few wagons while the mess orderlies 
were apparently making up their mind whether we 
had earned our daily beans. They decided the ques- 



tion in the affirmative, but were 15 minutes late so 
that I had to bolt down my food and make a break 
neck rush for the incinerator to wash my mess kit. 
The first call sounds and my squad is in line. Pa- 
rade Rest! Attention! Aha, at last. The Star 
Spangled Banner which waves long, very long for 
a tired man who is waiting to hear the blessed word 
"Dismissed!" But instead of "Dismissed" we quite 
unexpectedly hear "Squad Right !" Like the perfect 
machine which we are getting to be, in the twink- 
ling of an eye we change our formation and move 
out. Where are we going? We do not know, but 
we are on our way. In the regimental street we 
become a part of an immense column of other 
marching troops. A few more evolutions and 
thousands of us are massed around a platform and 
are waiting. What is going to happen? A hang- 
ing? A sermon? Something worse? We do not 
know, but patiently, without a question, without a 
murmur we wait. The band plays a funeral march 
or ragtime, I am too tired to tell which, and then 
we wait some more. And then the band plays 
some more. 

Everything, however, comes to him who waits, 
and this time it is a major, a chaplain and a col- 
onel of Engineers. Each delivers a corking good 
speech and is applauded to the skies. And then at 
last: "Dismissed!" Time: 7 p. m. or 14 1 A hours 
in the harness. And now please tell me: in your 
unbiased opinion, based on previous experience and 
upon your knowledge of my unparalleled indolence, 
in your opinion I say, is it actually possible that I 
am still alive ? 

Not all days are as hard as this or else I should 
by this time be in heaven and playing a harp in- 
stead of sitting in the Y. M. C. A. and writing this 
letter. But they are hard enough. We are going 
to be men when we get out of this and don't you 
forget it. Even now we are taking our little hard- 
ships like little men. No tears were shed while we 
were pulling that grass (for a purpose utterly un- 
known) but the thing was considered as a huge 
joke and enjoyed to the utmost. And no questions 
were asked either. Such perfect sympathy and 
mutual faith exist here between officers and men 
that a question would have seemed absurd and in 
bad taste. When we are told to do a thing we 



simply go ahead and do it, not because we are 
afraid but because it is the proper and soldierly- 
way to act. And a few days ago when we receiv- 
ed our fourth "shot" in the arm (inoculation) and 
half of us became temporarily sick, how many men 
do you think asked to be excused from drill? Not 
one ! We went out and drilled under the fierce 
Alabamian sun, going through setting up exercises 
and double time and all the other inventions of 
Satan, and all the time a score of us were on the 
verge of collapse. One did collapse eventually, re- 
mained on his back for a few moments, a fellow 
soldier fanning his face with a newspaper, and 
then got up and went to his tent unattended, while 
the rest of the battery continued to drill as if noth- 
ing had happened. 

I tell you, Norton, it is great to be a part of such 
a machine. You know what a misanthrope I am 
and how embittered against the entire world. But 
damned if I am not beginning to love those 180 
young devils for their grit and nerve and inex- 
haustible good nature if for nothing else. 

It is going to be no end of an adventure to go 
into action with them, and if I am not killed by the 
first shells I'll write a few pages about them, that 
will be real writing and not merely a mere pattern 
of paper and ink. 



THE LAST WHO SHALL BE FIRST 

Before the pearly gate of Heaven, 
Through which the hero legions go 

Before they pass to bliss eternal, 
A sentry paced to and fro. 

A sound of steps. "Halt, who goes there?" 
— "Tis I, the General."— "Advance, 

And recognized be by me 

Beyond all doubt, beyond all chance." 

— "To pass this gate although un wounded 

My right beyond all doubt is fair. 
Behold my head : it is white as snow — 
Behold my face: it is lined with care. 

I fought with mind, I fought with study 
And sleepless, anxious nights I spent 

And greater agony endured 

Than those whom to their death I sent." 



— *Tass on, on, sir, and all is well" 
And as he passed to his reward 

The sentry stood presenting arms 

But did not call: "Turn out the guard." 

And others came, lieutenants, captains 
And majors with their leaf of gold 

And colonels with their silver eagle 
And many non-coms young and old. 

And each was stopped and passed in turn. 

Each was saluted as he went. 
Some by a smile of friendly greeting 

And some by soldierly: "Present." 

But never once the guard was called 

Until at last a dismal shade 
Was seen and challenged and obeying 

Advanced wearily and said: 

" 'Tis I, a private, Smith or Jones 
(Or possibly 'twas Clark or Swain) 

I'm hungry, frozen, mud-bespattered 
Stiff with fatigue and numb with pain. 

Without a hope of fame or credit 
Without a thing to cheer my soul 

Not knowing even I was immortal 
I went and did and gave my all." 

— "Pass on, oh friend," the sentry cried: 
"Pass on, and sweet be your reward!" 

And as the sorry shape advanced, 

The sentry called: "Turn out the guard!" 



ANNOUNCEMENT 
By the Editor 

Copies of this book can be secured by writing 
to Corporal B. Jonas, Battery E, 135th Regiment, 
Camp Sheridan, Ala. 

The lowest price to civilians of the first part of 
this book is 50 cents, the highest limit being the 
sky. The same is true of the second part which will 
appear not later than Christmas and copies of 
which may be ordered now. Remit by check, money 



order or stamps. 

A minimum price of 50c for a few printed pages 
is exorbitant and we, the editor, know it well. But 
the irresponsible creature who is writing this book, 
and who, like most writers, has no sense, has the 
queerest possible ideas on the subject. He braz- 
enly asserts that this book is going to be a rare 
and beautiful thing. Mr. John D. Rockefeller, he 
says, is making a million dollars per year by ma- 
nipulating standard oil stocks. A good book, he 
says, is far more important than all the stocks 
in the world. Therefore — so runs the crazy logic 
of our writer — if Mr. Rockefeller makes a million 
a year, he, the writer, ought to make two millions 
at the very least and is going to get it. 

We, the editor, are shocked and surprised at 
such an unseemly greed. Editors of great maga- 
zines naturally make a good deal of money and so 
do publishers. But who ever heard of an unknown 
writer to get more than a starvation wage for his 
work? In our opinion it is scandalous and im- 
moral for a writer to expect anything else. A 
writer ought to be paid by the joy he derives from 
his art and by his consciousness of doing good to 
his fellow beings. 

But alas, what can we do? We have to humor 
our writer or else he simply won't write. We 
venture therefore, to suggest, ladies and gentle- 
men, that you had better come across and do it now 
while the coming is good. 

Very regretfully, .; 

THE EDITOR. 



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